By Any Other Name
by PenroseSun
Summary: In which Crowley expands his range of pet names, and Aziraphale has an existential crisis.


The first time it happened, Aziraphale didn't think anything of it.

After the end of the world, he and Crowley had taken a vacation of sorts. It had been quite a while since either of them had gotten out of the country, and there were so many excellent new restaurants and museums these days. So when Crowley suggested that they take a victory tour and see the sights of Europe, Aziraphale had immediately jumped at the opportunity.

France was first, of course – two hours by high speed rail brought them into Paris just in time for lunch.

"Do you think that excellent crepe place is still in business?" asked Aziraphale, as they stepped off the platform, and Crowley had smiled and taken his arm.

"Only one way to find out, _mon ange_. Shall we?"

_Huh,_ thought Aziraphale. _'Mon ange'_ – _that's new._

And then he saw a vendor selling paper cones of _frites_ and promptly forgot about it.

It wasn't until later that day that Aziraphale even noticed the difference. The two of them had walked together in the Jardin des Tuileries, taking the view of the humans around them as much as the that of the Place de la Concorde, and Crowley had smirked, and quipped that, "Perfectly manicured lawns are one of ours, you know, _mon ange_. They're terrible for the environment."

"It's a park, not a golf course, Crowley," Aziraphale had replied, the banter coming easily and automatically. And then, he'd thought about exactly what Crowley had said, and it occurred to him that 'mon ange' was not just new, but actually somewhat unusual.

Crowley had always been more fluent in human languages than he was, and it wasn't unusual for him to sprinkle vocabulary from wherever they happened to be, just as color. But unless Aziraphale was mistaken, 'mon ange' wasn't exactly just _'_angel' in French, like he might have expected. It had a possessive tucked into it – something closer to… '_My_ angel'.

Well, that brought up a whole host of thoughts which he had put extensive effort into repressing, didn't it.

Aziraphale blushed, and brushed the notion off quickly, before it could take root and give him trouble. Perhaps his French was worse than he'd realized. A few centuries speaking English had given him somewhat sloppy linguistic habits, after all – the British tended to be rather overgenerous with how they used nouns, and just saying 'ange' on its own might not have made proper grammatical sense in France.

It happened again at the Louvre ("I'm telling you, _mon ange_, Leo screwed up her smile – looks nothing like her at all!"), and at the Palais Garnier ("Ooh, they're putting on Don Carlo – we should come back for that one, _mon ange_"), and again outside of the Sainte-Chapelle ("Nah, I'm good out here, _mon ange_ – go ogle the torture relics without me").

_My angel… Oh, if only_, Aziraphale thought every now and again, and then decidedly and carefully did not read anything into it.

* * *

After France, they'd travelled to Spain – Madrid first, to see the Prado Museum and stroll around the gardens of the Crystal Palace, and then to Toledo to visit the old Jewish Quarter.

And Crowley… well…

It made sense, Aziraphale reasoned, that Crowley had stopped calling him _mon ange_. When in Rome, and all that, and _technically_ Spanish diminutives could be just generic terms of endearment, but…

"Churros and chocolate for breakfast, _angelito_?"

Oh, this was _much_ harder to ignore.

It wasn't like it meant anything, of course. It was… weird, maybe. You didn't usually tack on diminutives to job descriptions. Or, at least, Aziraphale was fairly sure you didn't – his Spanish was admittedly somewhat rusty.

But then, come to think of it, Crowley's Spanish was probably at least as rusty as his, and maybe worse. Aziraphale was fairly sure that Crowley had basically avoided Spain completely since that dreadful business in the late 1400s, and he had covered for most of the demon's temptations in the country since then. So, it was entirely possible that he, or Crowley, or perhaps both of them was just a little bit confused about how exactly diminutives worked in this language.

It was probably just a mistake, and Aziraphale knew better than to point it out and make things awkward. It wasn't as though there was any harm to it; if any humans overheard and thought it was strange, they'd no doubt just write the two of them off as tourists. There was really no sense in embarrassing Crowley over something like that. (And if, just maybe, Aziraphale enjoyed the new nickname – if he was perhaps just a little reluctant to point it out to Crowley because he would probably stop using it – that was purely a coincidence, and had no bearing on his motivations whatsoever.)

So over the course of the next week, whenever Crowley would point out something in a gallery, or suggest a restaurant, or make an arch comment about the general bent of the universe, Aziraphale would politely ignore the 'angelito' he'd tack onto the end, and would resolutely not imagine that it could ever mean anything.

Instead, he lead Crowley through cobblestone streets, and under arches – past fountains and street musicians and art vendors. They went out for paella, and bought turrón and miguelitos from half a dozen little pastry shops. And sometimes, Azirapahle saw Crowley smiling at him out of the corner of his eye, and his heart soared.

* * *

Thirty seconds after they set foot in Italy, Aziraphale knew that he was in trouble.

Crowley had made a beeline over to the Roma Pass kiosk, tossing a passing remark over his shoulder that Aziraphale should go buy them some gelato from a nearby vendor.

"What flavor do you want?" he called to Crowley's retreating back.

Crowley waived dismissively. "Whatever looks good, _angioletto mio_."

Aziraphale nearly dropped his suitcase.

If the names in France and Spain had been pushing it, then this was… he honestly didn't even _know _what this was. Aziraphale's French may have been weak and his Spanish may have been rusty, but he knew that his Italian was _excellent_, and there was no godly way that that phrase was innocent. Crowley could have said 'angelo' easily – or even 'angioletto' if he wanted to be cute about it. Even 'angelo mio' would have had a _little_ bit of plausible deniability left hiding in the cracks somewhere. But there was simply no way that 'angioletto mio' could be heard as anything other than a pet name, and a ridiculous, saccharine sweet pet name at that. You just plain _could not_ hear that and think that Crowley was referring to his job.

He bought a scoop of pistachio gelato in a daze, and walked back over to Crowley with it like he was having an actual out-of-body experience.

Crowley had two passes in hand already (having no doubt jumped the queue), and he took the gelato gratefully, then frowned.

"Wow, did you eat yours already?" he asked, and Aziraphale realized that he'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't bothered to buy any for himself.

"Er, no," he said, awkwardly, "I, uh… didn't feel like having any."

Crowley looked at him strangely. "You… didn't feel like _ice cream_?"

Aziraphale shrugged, and with an angelic act of will tried to keep his expression impassive.

"…Are you okay?" Crowley asked.

"Yes!" Aziraphale said, his voice about an octave higher than he'd meant for it to be. "I mean. Yes. Perfectly. Shall we get out of the airport, then?"

"Alright…" said Crowley, slowly. "Where to first, _angioletto mio_? Fontana di Trevi, maybe?_"_

_ "Sounds great," _Aziraphale squeaked, and then he'd headed off as quickly as he could, leaving a somewhat confused Crowley to tag along behind him.

In the days that followed, Aziraphale tried, honestly tried, not to say anything. He dropped things, yes. Choked on drinks, absolutely. Sometimes he even sputtered incoherently for several moments. But he tried his level best not to say anything, not to call Crowley out on it because…

Because it would embarrass Crowley.

Because it was just a stupid nickname, anyways.

Because… because Aziraphale_ liked_ it, and if he told Crowley how weird it was then Crowley might _stop._

It wasn't like it meant anything, of course. Rationally, Aziraphale knew that. Crowley had never called him anything but 'angel' and his proper name in English, or Latin, or Enochian, or any other language they'd spoken for any length of time. This new term of endearment was obviously just a passing diversion, like the ones he'd picked up in Spain and France. And Aziraphale knew perfectly well how _stupid_ it was start prying open well-sealed mental compartments when Crowley _clearly_ didn't– that was, Crowley couldn't _possibly_–

It was a losing battle. He couldn't concentrate on anything they saw in Rome, barely tasted the food that they ate – not when he kept waiting and irrationally hoping for Crowley to call him _his_ and _mean_ it.

By the last day of their trip, he felt like he physically could not contain it anymore, and the next time Crowley called him 'angioletto mio', the words just burst out of him:

"You know that doesn't mean what you think it means, Crowley."

"–Huh?" asked Crowley, and Aziraphale realized a little too late that he had cut his friend off mid-sentence.

"That thing you keep calling me," he said, and tried to keep his voice neutral. "'Angioletto mio.' That doesn't just mean angel."

"Eh?" asked Crowley, glancing up at him. "Pretty sure it does."

"Well, yes but," Aziraphale took a breath, and tried to calm his nerves. "There are connotations, do you see? 'Angioletto mio' is… well, it's a bit of a pet name. Whereas angel's just my job. You're um, well… You've been giving off a very different impression here in Italy than I think you typically do back in London, if you catch my drift?"

Crowley hmm-ed noncommittally. "Huh. Ok, yeah. That's uh. That's good to know. Thanks for the heads up."

Aziraphale nodded sharply, because he wasn't sure if he could say anything else without it coming out as a garbled mess.

Crowley rolled his eyes and smiled. "Anyways, as I was _saying_…"

And Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, and buried any and all disappointment.

* * *

Except, apparently, it wasn't all over, because as soon as they got back to London, Crowley had started calling Aziraphale _other _things.

It started subtly – "Want to get lunch, darling?" or "How about a walk in the park, dearest?" They were honestly no worse than anything Aziraphale called Crowley, and he could almost have written them off completely were it not for the fact that Crowley had never once used those words to refer to him before. Aziraphale had said nothing, and did his level best to not react in any way, shape, or form.

He might have even succeeded, if Crowley hadn't quickly upped the ante:

"Hey honey, fancy a picnic today?"

"Ride home, sweetheart?"

"Pass me the wine, would you, pumpkin?"

Aziraphale felt like he was _losing his mind_. This wasn't– They didn't _do_ this; _Crowley_ didn't do this.

Yes, maybe Aziraphale had fantasized about what it might be like for Crowley to call him pet names, before – the same way he'd idly imagined going down on one knee and proposing to him, or finding an undamaged manuscript of the complete works of Sappho at the end of a rainbow. There were some notions that were too ridiculous even for words, some dreams that were so unlikely that they didn't even feel dangerous. To say that Aziraphale didn't know what to do with one that was actually happening would be the understatement of literal millennia.

And it was only getting worse. One time, Crowley had answered the phone with "Hi, pookie," and Aziraphale had hung up in a panic and had had to pretend that the connection dropped to cover for it. Another time, Crowley had called him "cupcake" while they were feeding the birds in St James's Park, and Aziraphale had beaned a duck so hard with a crust of bread that he'd had to miracle it back to life.

Aziraphale loved the names, and with equal measure, he hated them. They gave him just enough of everything he'd ever wanted to make it painfully apparent that he would never have it. It was like Crowley had found him in a desert, dying of thirst, and responded by spraying him every now and then with his plant mister.

What was he supposed to do? Respond in kind? He couldn't – wouldn't dare. Crowley could flirt easily, because it was a game to him, but if Aziraphale opened that door even slightly, he had no idea what might pour out, and strongly suspected that the answer might be 'literally everything'. Should he just ignore it, then? Pray that Crowley eventually tired of this and moved on? That option made his stomach turn even worse than the first one had – there was a very fine line between imagining Crowley tiring of calling him pet names and Crowley tiring of _him_ in general, and Aziraphale shied away from the thought like it physically burned him.

He couldn't go on like this.

He couldn't.

It was like pressure in a balloon, or tension building in a cable as it pulled past taught. Bit by bit, stretched to the breaking point–

And when, a month after they'd come back to London, Crowley spared a glance his way and casually asked, "What're you reading, love?" Aziraphale snapped.

"_Damn it_, would you _stop_ that, Crowley!" he yelled, and Crowley drew back, in startled bewilderment.

"Uh… Jeez, all I asked was what you were reading–"

Aziraphale gritted his teeth. "That's_ not_ all you asked, and you know it."

Crowley had the audacity to look confused – made a vaguely helpless noise somewhere in the back of his his throat, and then opened his mouth to ask what Aziraphale meant, like he didn't already know, like he hadn't been doing this _suddenly_ and _obviously_ and _on purpose_. Aziraphale slammed his book shut and cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"The _pet names_, Crowley."

"The pet names," Crowley said, staring at Aziraphale like a deer in the headlights. "What– what about them?"

"You started using them, that's what! Crowley, it was one thing when we were traveling, but– but _this_– You can't just–!" Aziraphale cut himself off with a sound that he'd meant to be exasperated, but which unfortunately sounded much closer to how he actually felt – hurt, and exhausted, and too scared to even be properly angry about it.

Crowley was silent for a long moment.

"…I'll stop," he said, his voice suddenly soft and incredibly earnest. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I didn't realize you hated it. It won't happen again."

And just like that, the righteous indignation that Aziraphale had been using to carry him through this insanity was snuffed out in an instant, leaving nothing but hurt in its place.

"Yes, well. It had better not." Aziraphale felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he swallowed hard, turning away quickly in the hope that Crowley wouldn't see.

Not quick enough, apparently. Crowley drew in a breath, and Aziraphale wanted to die, a little bit.

"Aziraphale…?"

There was so much worry, so much honest concern in Crowley's voice – it felt like a punch to the gut. Aziraphale pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, and desperately tried to will the tears away.

"…I didn't hate it, Crowley," he said, finally, and his voice felt thick. "I… I _liked_ them. Just– Just _please_ don't–"

"…Don't what?" Crowley asked, and Aziraphale broke.

"Don't _toy_ with me."

"Oh…" said Crowley on a breath, and when Aziraphale looked up at him, he had a look like he'd just shattered something rare and irreplaceable. "Oh, Aziraphale. _Never. _I–"

Crowley swallowed hard, biting off whatever he was going to say next. "Tell me what you want," he said instead, after a pause. "Whatever you want, Aziraphale."

"I want _you_," said Aziraphale, and the words felt like a sob. "I want to be _your_ angel, I want you to call me_ love _and _mean_ it."

"Angel…" said Crowley, like it was a prayer. And before Aziraphale knew what was happening, Crowley had moved off of the sofa – was standing close to him and wiping the pinprick tears away from the corners of his eyes with shaking hands. "…Angel, I've always meant it."

For a moment, the world stood still, and Aziraphale forgot how to breathe. And then suddenly they were kissing – sweet, and soft, and Aziraphale wasn't sure which of them had initiated, which of them had closed those last few inches and millennia, but when he pulled away, it was Crowley who had tears in his eyes.

"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraphale, and there was a smile bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of him. "Oh, I've been something of an idiot, haven't I."

"Little bit," said Crowley with a wet sort of a chuckle. "I thought– I figured you knew."

"And that I was, what, just ignoring you?"

Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale pulled him in close, laughing into his neck. "Oh, good lord. We've wasted so much time."

When they kissed again, Crowley's lips seemed to whisper in a hundred different languages – _mon ange_, and _angelito_, and _angioletto mio_ – mine, mine, _mine_. And Aziraphale whispered back _mon amour_, _mi vida_, _anima gemella_, and _yours_.


End file.
